‘When did you know about the fire?’
‘Next morning, when I went to put in my day.’
‘Did nobody mention the fire to you before that?’
‘Ah, come to think of it, they did, well, sort of. When I got home from the pub my missus said as she had heard the fire-engines go past our cottage, so she wondered where the fire was, or whether it was only an exercise, but it was no business of ourn, we didn’t think, so we went to bed and then next morning I found that poor soul when I see what had happened to the old house. I started to do a bit of clearing up and then I seen her and went to get my orders from Mr Wotton who I guessed would be having his breakfast.’
‘And when you had reported to Mr Wotton?’
‘I never. He was busy, so I reported to Mrs Wotton and I reckon she phoned the police.’
‘Did you, in your capacity as gardener, ever store any inflammable material in the old house?’
‘Course not. I’ve got my shed and anyway the old house was kept locked. I only got in to see the body because the front door, being wood, was burnt down.’
‘And you had no idea that anybody was living in the old house?’
‘I’d soon have had ’em out of it. If anybody lived there, they only lived there of a night.’
The inquest had to be adjourned so that the police could continue with their enquiries, but everybody, ourselves included, had expected this. Poor old Anthony had had to say that he had identified the body as being that of Gloria Mundy, for no relatives had come forward, neither had the police been able to find any, for any personal documents which might have been helpful and which might have been in Gloria’s handbag or suitcase had been consumed in the fire.
The medical evidence did not help the police very much, either. The report was that it was impossible to state the time when the murder had been committed, for all the usual indications — staining and discoloration spreading into the face and neck, marbling of the veins and so forth, had been eliminated by the scorching that the body, and particularly the face, had received in the fire.
One thing was certain. The fire itself was not the cause of death. There was clear evidence of a deep stab wound, inflicted in the back, which must have killed the girl. The fire had undoubtedly been an attempt to cover up this more serious crime. What seemed to me to be the most extraordinary feature of the case — the fact that, although the face was unrecognisible, the hair had been no more than scorched — was not mentioned, so I suspected that the police were keeping very quiet about this possibly significant circumstance.
The inquest had opened at ten in the morning. Celia had not attended it, but, apart from Anthony and myself, William Underedge had turned up, although he slipped away so quickly at the end that we did not get a chance to speak to him. I wondered how he had found out the date and time of the inquest, but I supposed Celia had written to Karen and the news had been passed on.
We had scarcely finished lunch that day when Detective-Inspector Rouse and Detective-Sergeant Skinner were announced. Their purpose, it seemed, was to confirm who had been staying in the house when Gloria first turned up.
‘You see, sir,’ said Rouse, ‘the medical evidence, as it stands, is of very little use to us for the time being. As I read the pathologist’s report, the deceased could have been killed almost as soon as she arrived here.
‘We know, from your own admission, when that was, and the headmaster of the school, Mr Coberley, and also his wife, whom I interviewed separately — her in the nursing home — before I came here, both confirm it, but I need witnesses who can tell me of subsequent events. As I see it, the deceased could have met her death at any time from that day almost up to the time when the body was actually put into the house and the bonfire started.’
Anthony confirmed the list of names and addresses he had given before, then he and Celia were politely but very definitely dismissed and Rouse turned his attention to me.
‘Now, sir, obviously Miss Mundy was acquainted with Mr and Mrs Wotton, or she would hardly have turned up at this house and been invited to stay for lunch.’
‘I don’t think Mrs Wotton knew her,’ I said, ‘although it was she who issued the invitation. I believe Miss Mundy was acquainted with Anthony Wotton before his marriage, that’s all.’
I wondered, even as I said this, whether I was not letting Anthony down, but I did not see why Celia should be mixed up in this beastly affair more than could be helped. After all, I had had my arms round her, however involuntary the embrace had been on both sides, and the warmth of that sporadic encounter, together with her warm greeting upon my arrival at Beeches Lawn, remained with me. Besides, I thought of Imogen, whom I had allowed to slip out of my life.
Rouse pounced upon my words.
‘So Mr Wotton was acquainted with the deceased, but Mrs Wotton was not,’ he said. ‘I see. May I ask whether you yourself were acquainted with the poor young woman?’
‘No, I had never met her before she came here.’
‘What about the other guests?’
I thought I saw a chance of doing a bit of cover-up for Anthony, whom I felt I might have landed in the cart.
‘Well, there was another man who had known her some time back, I believe,’ I said, ‘but he wasn’t actually present when she arrived and she had gone before he got here.’ (I reserved the information that Hara-kiri had seen her in the grounds.)
‘Who would that be, sir?’
A man named McMaster, H K McMaster. He and Wotton used to play in the first fifteen when we were at college together, so I suppose they knew the same people.’ I thought rather well of myself for thinking that one up. He consulted Anthony’s list.
‘Mr McMaster, yes. Exactly when did he arrive and how long did he stay?’
